


The High Won't Hurt Here Babe

by ionsquare



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:39:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionsquare/pseuds/ionsquare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is seven years old, and he’s covered in his mother’s blood, and she’s dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The High Won't Hurt Here Babe

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write Stiles and his Mom, so this is what happened. 
> 
> As far as fanon goes, a lot of people think Stiles' mom died of cancer, which makes the most sense if you think about it. For very personal reasons, I couldn't write cancer fic, so I went a different route. I didn't see any reason to warn for anything excessive, because this _is_ death fic.

It’s everything after that Stiles remembers the most.

*~*

Stiles was young, but it’s hard to forget the sight of your mother dying in your arms. He remembers after, when he could finally hear the sirens, the swirling blue of the police lights, and the hoarse, broken way his dad screamed his name. His shirt and pants were soaked in blood, and his hands were supporting her head; he just wanted her to be comfortable.

Their car went flying like a spaceship, Stiles remembers. It reminded him of the ones from _Lost in Space_.

The other car, or what he remembers of it, slid sideways into a ditch.

It took three hours before Stiles heard the wailing of the sirens.

Stiles is seven years old, and he’s covered in his mother’s blood, and she’s dead.

*~*

“St--Stiles,” his mom coughs up more blood, taking a ragged breath. “Are you okay?”

Stiles is watching fireflies flicker, fingers brushing through his mama’s hair absently.

“I’m fine, Mama. My neck hurts.”

“Whiplash,” she whispers.

“I can’t hear him, Mama.”

“Who?”

(Later, Stiles will remember the odd way her leg was twisted, almost like a pretzel. Stiles doesn’t want to eat pretzels anymore.)

“I can’t hear Dad. Sometimes I hear sirens, and that’s how I know it’s him, but I can’t hear him, Mama.” Stiles sneezes, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I’m cold, Mama.”

A tear slips from her eye, dripping off her cheek.

“It’s o--kay,” she coughs again, wincing, wheezing and struggling to breathe. “S’okay. Dad. Be here soon, baby.”

Stiles is seven years old, and he’s covered in his mother’s blood, and she’s dying.

*~*

_“We did everything we could, Sir. I’m... I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but she has passed away.”_

_“But. I mean, I just. She’s my wife...”_

_“I’m so sorry; we did everything. She lost too much blood.”_

_"And, and my son? He was bleeding too.”_

_“None of it is his, Sir. She... she bled out.”_

After the sirens, the first thing Stiles heard was his dad screaming his name. Everything after that is silence; there’s nothing.

Right now, sitting in one of the green chairs in the hallway, Stiles hears the _thump-thunk_ of his dad’s boots, and then he’s in his dad’s arms as his dad falls to his knees, hugging him and crying.

Stiles rests his chin on his dad’s shoulder.

“I’m tired.”

“I know, son. I know.”

“Did they give Mama some blood?”

His dad pulls back, eyes swollen and red, staring at Stiles.

“What do you mean?”

“Mama was bleeding a lot. Did they give her blood to make her better?” Stiles is looking at the badge on his dad’s shirt, thumbs rubbing circles on it.

“Son,” his dad covers Stiles’ hands with one of his own. “She didn’t make it.”

Stiles doesn’t like this. Stiles knows that when people are sick or hurt they can come to the hospital and get better. Mama always told him that doctors fix people.

Stiles doesn’t like this.

He starts breathing wrong, choking, gasping.

Stiles doesn’t like this.

“But doc--ters. Fix. People.” Stiles chokes as he tries to breathe, and he can see his dad’s mouth moving, but he can’t hear anything.

“Doc--ters. Fix. People,” his voice gets louder and louder.

“Stiles, breathe. Breathe, son.”

Stiles screams. “No! I don’t like this! No! Mama was gonna be fixed! They didn’t fix her! Make them fix her!” He wants to run away, wants to find his mama. He’s twisting in his dad’s arms, feet kicking his stomach. “Let me go let me go let me go let me go!”

He runs as fast as his feet can take him when he finally breaks free.

Stiles is seven years old, and he’s still covered in his mother’s blood, and she’ll never say _I love you_ to him ever again.

*~*

Stiles falls asleep under his dad’s police car after he wears himself out. He’s still cold. He hears the _thump-thunk_ of his dad’s boots, and then his dad is peeking under the car.

“It’s okay; I found him.”

Stiles begins to cry.

“No, I--I can handle it. Thank you.”

His dad kneels down slowly, lying down so he can see Stiles, hands pillowed under his cheek.

“They were,” Stiles blubbers, sniffling wetly. “They were ‘posed to fix her.”

“I know, son.”

Stiles shudders, trying to breathe.

“It’s not fa--fair.”

His dad reaches out, holding one of Stiles’ hands.

“Let’s go home, son, okay?”

Stiles is seven years old, and his mother is dead, and she was wrong.

*~*

After the funeral, after they put his mama in the ground, Stiles doesn’t want to leave.

“Can Scott help me plant flowers?”

Scott’s mom nods at Stiles’ dad, and that’s that.

“I have never planted flowers,” Scott tells Stiles.

Stiles is packing the dirt in and around the flowers, like his mom taught him.

“I helped Mama plant them all the time.”

“I ate dirt once,” Scott admits, accidentally planting a flower upside down.

Stiles fixes it, wiping his hands together.

"That’s gross.”

“I thought it would taste like Fun Dip.”

“You are so weird.” Stiles stands up, sweaty and dirty, and a little hungry. “Mama bled all over me.”

Scott kicks away a rock, glancing at Stiles.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Stiles is seven years old, he’s not covered in his mother’s blood anymore, but it still feels like it.

*~*

On the one year anniversary of her death, Stiles is eight years old, and the nightmares are too much to handle at times.

(Sometimes, when it’s really bad, he just wakes up, hugs his teddy bear close, and whispers to himself that everything will be okay.)

He’s only eight years old, but even he knows that he’s lying to himself.

On the morning of the one year anniversary, Stiles wakes up from yet another nightmare, walks quietly into his dad’s room and grabs the silver-framed picture of his mama.

“Hi, Mama,” Stiles says quietly to her framed face. He sets her down on the kitchen table, right in front of her chair. “Dad got me a stool so I can reach the cereal cabinet,” he says, pulling it out from under the table.

“Trix or Lucky Charms?” Stiles asks her.

Silence, obviously, but he can hear her so clear in his mind: _Marshmallows, of course._

“Scott’s going to help me replant flowers today,” Stiles says around a mouthful of cereal, wiping his chin. “On your grave.”

He can hear his dad coming down the stairs, looking up when he walks into the kitchen.

“Morning, kiddo,” he glances at the picture frame, but says nothing about it. “Any Trix left for me?”

“Lucky Charms, Dad,” Stiles reprimands, spilling cereal in his lap.

His dad smiles at him, shaking his head.

“Of course - marshmallows.” Stiles doesn’t say anything when his dad touches the frame before pouring himself his own bowl of cereal.

He’s eight years old, and the memory of her doesn’t hurt any more.

*~*

Stiles is sixteen years old, his best friend is a werewolf, he’s almost died more times than he can count on his own two hands, and he’s forgetting what his mom smelled like.

“Do you...” Stiles starts, but stops.

Derek looks up from the book he’s reading, one of the many Deaton let them borrow.

“Do I what?”

“Do you... remember what your mom smelled like?”

Derek stares at him for the longest time.

“Forget I asked. That was, that was _really_ intrusive. I’m sorry, god. I’m sorry, Derek.”

“Brown sugar, pine needles, and dandelions,” Derek answers, quietly.

Stiles tilts his head in thought.

“Brown sugar?”

“We’d have a big dinner on Sundays. She’d bake cookies. For the rest of the week she’d smell like brown sugar.” Derek smiles thoughtfully to himself.

“My mom loved marshmallows,” Stiles blurts out, suddenly not being able to stop. “After the accident, after she... bled out on me, I remembered that I smelled marshmallows.”

Derek remains silent, but attentive.

“I wanted s’mores,” Stiles swallows. “We, uh,” he clears his throat, “we didn’t have any marshmallows. So Mom decided to go to the grocery store.”

“Stiles-”

“I wanted s’mores, Derek,” his voice almost a whisper. “My Mom died because I was selfish and wanted s’mores. She smelled like marshmallows all the time, and the laundry detergent she used to wash clothes, and... and something else, but I can’t remember. I can’t remember what else, and oh my god, I wanted s’mores. My Mom _died_ because of fucking _s’mores_.”

Derek bolts around the table, grabbing Stiles by his shoulders.

“Breathe, Stiles. In and out; come on.” Derek brings a hand up, breathing in deeply, bringing his hand down, exhaling. “Come on, Stiles.”

Stiles stares at Derek, thin wheeze of air as he tries to breathe, nodding at Derek, taking another deep breath in and out. “Fine,” he croaks. “I’m fine.”

At that moment, Stiles’ phone chirps with a picture notification from Scott.

It’s a photo of him and Scott when they were seven, chowing down on a hidden bag of marshmallows they’d found that his mom had tried so hard to hide. She wasn’t even mad at them, had just laughed, and taken a picture.

_Dude! Mom found this in a box! Remember when I stuffed twelve marshmallows in my mouth before crying? oh hey, tell D I’ll be by in 20._

“Everything okay?” Derek asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Stiles smiles slowly with a shake of his head.

“Yeah, just. Scott. Sometimes he knows exactly what to say when I need to hear it. Oh, and he’ll be by in 20, _D_.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“I hate when he calls me that.”

Stiles is sixteen years old, and he’s starting to forgive himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song [I Know Places](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FgmBwjJvCfA) by Lykke Li. Seriously, listen to it. It's my song for Stiles and his mom.
> 
> Big, big thanks to [blacktofade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktofade/pseuds/blacktofade)'s amazing beta work on this; seriously, this fic sounds great because of her. You're a gem, and I adore you.
> 
> Just a note: I didn't want to give Stiles' mom a name in case we happen to get her name on the show. I like the way 'Mama' sounds, so I went with that instead.
> 
> Don't be shy, come say hi to me over on [tumblr](http://ionsquare.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
